“Nay, Beltane,” she whispered, “let thine own heart speak me this.”

All blithe and glorious grew the world about him as he stooped and caught her in his arms, lifting her high against his heart.  And, in this moment, he forgot the teaching of Ambrose the Hermit, forgot all things under heaven, save the glory of her beauty, the drooping languor of her eyes and the sweet, moist tremor of her mouth.  And so he kissed her, murmuring ’twixt his kisses: 

“Fairer art thou than all the flowers, O my love, and sweeter thy breath than the breath of flowers!”

Thus Helen the Proud, the Beautiful, yielded her lips to his, and in all the world for her was nought save the deep, soft voice of Beltane, and his eyes, and the new, sweet ecstasy that thrilled within her.  Surely nowhere in all the world was there such another man as this, so strong and gentle, so meet for love and yet so virginal.  Surely life might be very fair here in the green solitudes, aye, surely, surely—­

Soft with distance came the peal of bells, stealing across the valley from the great minster in Mortain, and, with the sound, memory waked, and she bethought her of all those knights and nobles who lived but to do her will and pleasure, of Mortain and the glory of it; and so she sighed and stirred, and, looking at Beltane, sighed again.  Quoth she: 

“Is this great love I foretold come upon thee, Beltane?”

And Beltane answered: 

“Truly a man hath not lived until he hath felt a woman’s kisses upon his lips!”

“And thou wilt flout poor Love no more?”

“Nay,” he answered, smiling, “’tis part of me, and must be so henceforth—­forever!”

But now she sighed again, and trembled in his arms and clasped him close, as one beset by sudden fear, while ever soft with distance came the silvery voices of the bells, low yet insistent, sweet yet commanding; wherefore she, sighing, put him from her.

“Why then,” said she, with drooping head, “fare thee well, messire.  Nay, see you not?  Methinks my task is done.  And it hath been a—­ pleasing task, this—­of teaching thee to love—­O, would you had not learned so soon!  Fare thee well.  Beltane!”

But Beltane looked upon her as one in deep amaze, his arms fell from her and he stepped back and so stood very still and, as he gazed, a growing horror dawned within his eyes.

“What art thou?” he whispered.

“Nay, Beltane,” she murmured, “ah—­look not so!”

“Who art thou—­and what?” he said.

“Nay, did I not tell thee at the first?  I am Helen—­hast thou not known?  I am Helen—­Helen of Mortain.”

“Thou—­thou art the Duchess Helen?” said Beltane with stiffening lips, “thou the Duchess and I—­a smith!” and he laughed, short and fierce, and would have turned from her but she stayed him with quivering hands.

“And—­did’st not know?” she questioned hurriedly, “methought it was no secret—­I would have told thee ere this had I known.  Nay—­look not so, Beltane—­thou dost love me yet—­nay, I do know it!” and she strove to smile, but with lips that quivered strangely.